Johnny Bravo started his Saturday like he did every other day: By jumping out of bed and flexing like a Roman god. He posed, strained, and admired himself in the full length mirror on the back of his door. "Someone call the police," he said, "because there's a sexy burglar in my house." He studied his reflection. Tall, broad, and jacked with perfectly styled blonde hair and chiseled features, he wore pink footie pajamas with a zipper running up the front. "Oh, wait," he said to an audience of adoring women, "it's just me."

Only there was no audience, there was only him, a twenty-eight year old man with no job and no girlfriend.

He was alone.

His pencil-line smile fell into a frown and for an awful second, he saw himself as he was, not as he wanted to be.

But that was short-lived. He was hot. He was hunky. And he could bench press more than anyone at the gym. As he was fond of saying, why be sad when you can be Johnny Bravo instead? Maybe he didn't have a job, and maybe the honies ran away from him no matter how hard he tried...maybe women looked at him with open disgust and rolled their eyes when he attempted to strike up a conversation...and maybe…

And maybe he was depressing himself again.

He took a deep breath, sat on the edge of his bed, and fisted his hand dramatically to his forehead. "I am too handsome to be this single," he said.

What was it about him that women didn't like? He was buff, he was stacked, he was handsome, he was sexy, he was so hot he sizzled, isn't that how love is supposed to work?

A rush of bitter rage washed through him.

Like he did every time this happened - usually first thing in the morning, when his defenses were down - he decided it wasn't his fault, it was the women. They were too picky. Too frigid. With the thousands of dating sites out there, they constantly held out hope of finding the perfect man, the one guy who would fit their wants and needs 100 percent. Only that wasn't realistic. Even he - admittedly kind of a lunkhead - knew that. If you have too many standards (and women these days had a whole shit ton), you're never going to find someone who checks off every single box. He, like most men, didn't have high standards. He wanted a woman who was hot, could cook, clean, and obey. He wanted a woman who'd take care of, wash his clothes, make his meals, pamper him when he was sick, and do everything for him that his mother did.

Come to think of it, Mama was the perfect woman. If he could find someone like her, he'd be happy. She didn't have to be funny, witty, charming, and all that other junk women wanted men to be.

You know, it wasn't fair. All women had to do was sit there and look pretty, and guys flocked to them. Men, on the other hand, had to be all those things he listed and more. They had to be fucking superhuman or the pretty little princesses would turn their little noses up at them. And why not? They had crowds of men to choose from and if they ever got so lonely that he had to hug a stuffed animal to their chest and fight back tears of self-pity - as Johnny himself maybe kinda sorta did from time to time - they could just go grab a man like that. Could men do that? Hell, if he was the Total Package and couldn't do it, then, no, no guy could.

Fucking bitches.

Sometimes he really hated women. They were all snooty, stuck-up, and entitled. They thought they could do whatever they want because white knighting simps in fedoras fell all over themselves to powder their dainty little butts in hopes of maybe getting a pity fuck. In his lowest moments, Johnny looked at all women with mild resentment. Then he looked at his Mama and took heart. If one that perfect existed, there had to be more, and he was gonna find her.

He just wished he could get some ass in the meantime. He was almost thirty and he'd only been with one girl...and they were both so drunk he could barely remember it. He tried to recall the feeling of her pussy every time he jacked off, but he couldn't, and that left even more frustrated than just pretending.

Speaking of masturbating, he was still hard from the night before. He didn't remember having any sex dreams, but he must have. If so, they probably ended before he got any just like they always did.

Heaving a dejected sigh, Johnny got under the covers, grabbed the lotion from his nightstand, and squirted some into his cupped palm. It wasn't fair. He was too strong, good looking, and big to have to do this. He should have a harem of slave girls to drain his balls on command, girls who never talked back and did exactly what he wanted them to do when he wanted them to do it.

Maybe if he had a job.

He had to admit that having no cash worked against him. Mama gave him an allowance and a little extra for doing all of his chores without putting up too much of a fuss, but her idea of "extra" was a dollar bill and a "Thank you, Johnny, you're such a good boy" followed by a big, red kiss on the forehead. If he wanted to start raking in the babes, he needed gainful employment. But only if the hours weren't long. Or the work wasn't too demanding. Or if it wasn't too far away. Of if it involved wearing a dumb uniform. Or if it required a high school diploma. Anything that included getting his hands dirty was out, and so was restaurant work, and retail. A guy he knew down the street worked on a Highway Department crew and offered to put in a good word for Johnny, but Johnny waved him off. Why should he go out there and sweat and break his back for eleven dollars an hour? Whoa, mama, that was crazy.

He needed to find something though. Just as soon as he was -

The door burst open and his mother came in, dressed in a loud, silky robe and furry slippers. Johnny jumped and threw his arms reflexively out; the lotion splattered the wall and oozed down the plaster in thin, greasey rivulets, and he quickly blotted his hand on the blanket. Thank God he wasn't jacking off yet. "Good morning, John-John," she cowed. She held a wooden tray in her hands and wore a big, leering smile. Her teeth were crooked and stained yellow from decades of nicotine and her cat eye glasses perched slightly askew on her nose. She sat the tray on his lap and stared adoringly down at him.

"Mama," Johnny said and sat up straight, "can you please knock next time?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, John-John," she said, "I was just excited to see my baby boy, that's all." She bent and pinched his cheek. "How did you sleep?"

Johnny darted his eyes to his tray. Eggs. Bacon. A piece of wheat toast, cut diagonally and lightly brushed with butter. And a glass of milk. Johnny didn't like milk and hadn't since he was twelve, but he drank it to please Mama. "Okay," he said. Now that he thought about it, he vaguely recalled a nightmare. Should he bring it? Mama would make a fuss over it. Normally, he liked when she did that, it made him feel special and important, like he was the center of the universe, but right now, he wasn't in the mood for it. He loved his mama and he enjoyed it when she babied him...and maybe that was a problem.

"I was thinking of looking for a job today."

Mama fisted her hands to her face and tilted her head to the side like he was the most darling thing ever. "That's my big boy. Do you need me to give you a ride?"

"Nah, I'll be fine."

He said that reluctantly. Walking too much hurt his feet and made him all sweaty and taking the bus made him nervous - he didn't tell anybody this, but he was always afraid he was going to miss it and wind up trapped somewhere far from home. He almost changed his answer, but something deep inside told him that he needed to do this himself.

After Mama was gone, Johnny scarfed down his breakfast, then sat the tray aside for her to collect later. He got up and crossed to the dresser, stepping over a minefield of dirty clothes and other debris. Mama cleaned his room once a week, which really wasn't enough; hopefully she picked up while he was out.

Dressing in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, Johnny pulled on his shoes and left through the front door.

The day was hot and bright. Thirsty green-brown trees lined the sidewalk, and the low, telltale hum of window-mounted air conditioners filled the stagnant air. Somewhere in the distance, children laughed, and across the way, a man in khaki shorts and a polo shirt sprayed his car with a hose. Johnny flipped his sunglasses up to get a better look, and let out an appreciative whistle. Sleek and black with tinted windows, it screamed I'M RICH, and as Johnny walked to the bus stop, he simmered with jealousy. If he had a ride like that, he'd have babes for sure.

That was his problem. Women only cared about money and material stuff. They didn't care about looks or personality, they flocked to cars, penthouse suites, and fat checkbooks. That's how all those rich old bastards with back hair and tiny dicks kept landing knockouts and guys like him couldn't even get a text back.

A ball of anger formed in his chest, and he took a deep breath, then let it slowly out through his nose. He needed to get his mind off -

"Hiya, Johnny!"

Johnny's step faltered. Oh, no.

Suzy, the red-headed neighbor girl who ran him down every time he stuck his head out the door, skipped up to him and clasped her hands behind her back. She rocked back and forth on the balls of her heels and stared up at him with those big, adoring eyes like a cultist beholding her god. A furnace blast of sandpaper wind blew strands of rusty hair in her eyes, and she brushed them automatically away and tucked them behind her ear.

The greatest indignity in his life was that the only girl - the only one - who showed any interest in him was, like, six. She couldn't be a big-breasted twenty year old blonde, she couldn't even be a sixteen year old jailbait, she just haaaad to be a puny runt.

And a creepy one at that. Her gaze penetrated him, unwavering, unshakable, seeing into him and worshipping every molecule. He couldn't blame her, he was perfect, but it weirded him out anyway.

Breaking eye contact, he threw his head back, held his hand up, palm facing out, and kept walking. "Sorry, little neighbor girl," he said, "I ain't got time to chat."

"Where you going?" she asked, undaunted, and fell in behind him.

"I'm getting a job."

"Oh, cool, where?"

"I don't know yet," he said. "Probably as a magazine centerfold. Or an underwear model. Something pretty."

The bus stop was ahead. An old man with a cane sat on the bench, and a rough looking guy with a neck tattoo and a nub of a cigarette pinched between his thin lips stood by the overflowing trash can and texted on his Tracfone. "You'd be really good at both," Suzy said encouragingly. "But you'd be really good at anything you put your mind to."

"I know."

As luck would have it, the bus passed and pulled to a stop at the curb. Good, he didn't have to hang around with Little Miss Motormouth. "That's my bus, bye," he said and hurried over.

"Good luck!" Suzy called.

Feeling generous, Johnny shot her a wink and a finger gun.

He dropped his change into the farebox and moved to an outfacing seat against the wall. Ten minutes later, he yanked the pull cord and got off at the intersection of Main and First Avenue. Brick and glass storefronts overlooked the busy street and people in light, colorful clothes paraded up and down the sidewalk, enjoying the weather. Johnny put his hands on his hips and scanned the windows across the way, looking for a HELP WANTED sign but not finding any. He did find a honey at twelve'o'clock. "Whoa, Mama," he said and flipped his sunglasses up. Tall and tan with black hair and ruby red lips, she leaned against a NO PARKING sign and smoked a cigarette, her red dress clinging to her supple body and baring her long, smooth legs.

Was it just him...or did she look DTF?

Completely oblivious to everything but her - even traffic - Johnny bounded across the street. The woman spared him an uninterested glance, then went back to puffing her cigarette. Putting on his most charming smile, he leaned against the post, his face inches from hers. "Hey, lil' mama," he said. "You're not the only one who's smoking." He flexed his muscles and snapped his arm out (the beach is that way). The woman favored him with a blank stare, then took a drag, turned her head slightly to the side, and blew it out. "What about we go back to my place and be pretty together?"

To his mind-bending shock, she said, "Okay."

"Really?" he blurted.

"Sure," she said and flicked her cigarette away. "It's eighty for a short stay, one-fifty for half, and two for an hour."

Johnny's brow furrowed. "Say...what?"

The woman rolled her eyes. "Those are my prices."

Now Johnny was confused. "Prices for what?"

"My time."

"So...I have to pay for your time?"

"Yes."

Johnny's shoulders slumped. He should have known. "I have five dollars and a bus token."

For a moment, the woman looked him up and down, her lips pursed in thought. "You can feel my boob."

If he had any pride at all, Johnny would have cut his losses and walked about, but he didn't. It had been years since he'd known the soft warmth of a woman's body and the prospect of fondling the sexy Latina's chest made his heartbeat speed up. He dug into his pocket and handed her his money and bus token. She shoved them both into her purse, tossed her hair out of her face, and thrust her breasts out. "You can squeeze them both," she offered.

Johnny hesitated, then reached out and cupped her tits in his hands: They were full, fleshy, and bare beneath her dress, her flesh separated from his by a thin layer of fabric and nothing else. A steel band closed around Johnny's chest and his dick twitched against the inseam of his pants. He swallowed around a lump in his throat and gave the woman's chest a hearty squeeze. "So soft," he muttered, "so nice."

"Alright, creep," the woman said and pulled away. "You copped your feel, now get lost."

Johnny shook his head like a man coming awake from a beautiful dream. "Can I have one more?"

"No," the woman said. She turned to walk away, and Johnny followed like a lost little puppy.

"Can I grab your butt this time?"

The woman shot him a dirty look over her shoulder. "Unless you have a hundred bucks, no."

Johnny's mind worked. "I can borrow a hundred from my mama. A-And I have allowance"

"What a loser," the woman muttered to herself. She sped up and disappeared around the corner. Johnny started to follow, but it was hopeless. She was right. He was a loser.

Sighing, he sank onto a bench and stewed in self-pity for a while before forcing himself on. If he had money, he wouldn't have bombed like that. If he had a job, he would have gotten to do a lot more to her than just fondle her boobies. He came here looking for a job, and that encounter told him he was 100 percent right about women being drawn to coin.

Now he was more determined than ever to get a job.

That afternoon, Johnny stopped in at more than a dozen businesses along Main Street, including a couple of restaurants; he didn't want to do the work, but he needed money badly so he'd take a kitchen gig...at least temporarily.

At every place he went, he submitted an application and was told he'd get a call back. At the coffeehouse, he stood at the counter and spoke to the manager, a fat man with three chins and little black Buddy Holly glasses that made his face look even bigger. "I believe you'll find my application in order," Johnny said and slid it across.

The fat man picked it up and frowned. "This is just a signed, shirtless photo of you."

"Exactly," Johnny grinned.

"Uh...we'll call you."

For some reason, Johnny got the impression that the fat man wouldn't call him.

In-between interviews, Johnny hit on random women: A blonde waiting for a taxi, a brunette striding down the sidewalk, a black girl waiting for her friend outside a restaurant. As predicted, they all turned him down...savagely. The blonde called him a meathead, the brunette clucked her tongue in disgust, and the black girl slapped his sunglasses off his face; all he did was say they should make a chocolate/vanilla swirl, he didn't see the big problem.

Every rejection, both personal and professional, brought him down just a little more, and by the end of the day, he dragged like an overgrown ape, gaze downcast, shoulders stooped. On his way home - on foot because he sold his only bus token for a brief and unsatisfying trip to second base - he ducked into Pop's and sat at the counter with his head lowered. Pop, a stout, balding man in an apron and bowtie, came over and sat a milkshake in front of him. "Heyya, Johnny," he said.

"I don't have the money to pay for that," Johnny sighed, "thanks, anyway."

"Eh, it's on the house," Pop said, "you look blue."

"I am blue, pops," he said.

The old man leaned one hairy arm against the counter and bent close. "What's wrong, Johnny?" he asked kindly.

Johnny shifted his weight. He was too ashamed to say. Failing with women to the degree he had made you less of a man, and there was nothing harder in the world than admitting you weren't a man. Guys stake so much of their ego on being able to succeed with the opposite sex, right or wrong, and crashing and burning, again and again, at something so basic…

What was wrong with him? Why didn't anyone want him? He knew he wasn't perfect, but was he really that fucking bad? Sure, maybe he was braggadocious, but you have to be, women are attracted to confidence. They don't want someone scuttling around like the virgin in those Chad vs Virgin memes.

Did they?

He didn't know. It was all so hard and confusing that he would have given up if he didn't want a woman so goddamn bad. Dating is like...hmm...it's like rolling a boulder uphill. In the snow. They say just be yourself, but that was wrong, dating is about putting your best foot forward. No one is themselves on a first date. They're a salesman. Women doll themselves up, men smile and project confidence they don't feel - it's all so fake and contrived.

"What's going on?" Pops asked again.

Johnny didn't realize he was going to reply until he heard the sound of his own voice. "Women," he said, "women are what's wrong. I-I can't get one to save my life. I keep trying and getting rejected and...it hurts, Pops."

Pops nodded grimly. "Yeah, I know how you feel, kid. You gotta keep your chin up. Look, I don't wanna sound like a fag, but you're a good looking guy and you got a great physique. A guy like you should be drowning in pussy."

That made Johnny feel even worse.

"What I'm saying," Pops said, "is that you just gotta try harder. You're gonna meet some stuck up bitches. You're gonna come across man-hating feminist cunts who wanna suck titty just as bad as you do. The world's all topsy turvy these days, it's hard. You can't give up, though."

Johnny sighed and grabbed his milkshake. He'd been trying and look where that got him

He didn't have the energy to argue, though. He just wanted to be quiet and left alone. "Yeah. Thanks, Pops."

"Anytime," Pops said and patted Johnny's arm. Despite the threshing pain in his chest, Johnny was touched.

After finishing his milkshake, he walked home through the gathering gloom, getting there just as full night fell over Aron City. A tiny ranch with lawn gnomes, pink flamingos, and gazing balls on pedestals in the front yard, the house he shared with Mama was the closest thing to safe harbor he had; at the end of a long, disappointing day, he could hunker inside where he was loved and perfect and nothing could hurt him.

He was looking forward to watching TV with Mama, but when he got to the head of the walk, the lights were out and the driveway empty. Inside, he found a note pinned to the fridge: Playing bridge with the girls. Here's twenty dollars for pizza. Love you. Xoxoxoxoxoxo.

Johnny deflated. Even here, at home, he was alone.

Even here he was worthless.

He took the twenty and shoved it into his pocket, intending to just go to bed and try again tomorrow. Instead, he left the house and walked six blocks to Jerry's, a cheap hole-in-the-wall bar in a strip mall anchored by a Piggly-Wiggly. Inside, neon lights held shadows at bay, and loud country music blared from the jukebox. Clusters of people sat at the bar, laughing and sipping from long neck bottles of Budweiser and Natty Ice, and a couple college aged kids crowded around the Pac-Man cabinet in the corner. Johnny sat at the bar, ordered a rum and Coke, and nursed it while people watching. He landed on a few hot chicks but they were all with someone, and the one who wasn't struck him as the kind who'd slap him for daring to even look at her.

That was all women, though, bunch of tramps and bitches. You know what really pissed him off? Everywhere he looked, even the ugliest skanks had boyfriends. Fat bitches with four chins and more rolls than Little Debbie; pink haired feminists who looked manlier than he did; every single last one of them had someone. It was that easy for women. Just decide you don't want to be single anymore and BAM, a guy fucking materalizes outta nowhere. It didn't matter how disgusting they were, guys fell all over themselves to ask them out. What kind of shit is that? It must be nice being able to sit there and pick someone out from a crowd like choosing the pick of the litter. Oh, oh, and here's the really funny part: More often than not, they picked guys who treated them worse than dirt. Johnny could admit to being kind of difficult sometimes, but the last thing he'd ever do is crack a woman in the face. That's who women kept going for, though, the cheaters, the face-crackers, the users, the abusers.

You know what? Fuck them. They deserved to get their lights punched out.

He drained his rum and ordered another. The glass perspired in his hand and the music throbbed in his temples; the smell of cheap beer and desperation wafted into his nose and sweat trickled down the back of his neck. A gaggle of twenty-somethings came in and sat at a booth flanking the wall. Johnny watched them from the corner of his eye, the fuming hatred in his chest stoking, growing, burning. They were all pretty, all smiling, and all as sweet as apple pie...until he tried to talk to them. Then they'd turn into the kind of cunts Pops told him about.

Only Pops didn't understand something. All women were like that. At least all the women around Johnny's age. Maybe they were more open and liberated back in the sixties, but today they were all ice queens. The granddaughters of the sexual revolution were, ironically, some of the most clam-thighed bitches to ever live. Back in the day, women were allll about free love, but today, after having their stupid head pumped full of Disney bullshit from the time they were old enough to raise a plastic fucking wand, they wanted Prince Charming and refused to settle for less. Only they were too fucking retarded to realize that Prince Charming isn't real. One day, like a child finding out Santa Claus doesn't exist, they wake up, then they turn into either spinsters or man hating lesbians. There is no in-between.

Johnny downed his drink and ordered another. The music got louder, his head got fuzzier, and his mood got darker. He slammed one drink, two, four, losing count as his senses dulled. Finally, he ran out of money and the bartender cut him off. He got up to argue, but his knees buckled and he caught himself on the edge of the bar.

Maybe it was time to go.

Summoning all the self-control he had left, he turned and staggered to the door. Outside, the cool night air slapped him briskly across the face and he almost fell over. Hunching his shoulders and leaning heavily forward, Johnny started home, resembling a man trekking into the middle of a hurricane and feeling like one too. Every step was hard and shaky, and he fell twice in the parking lot. The ground turned to mud, the world spun around him like a tilt-a-whirl, and every muscle in his body suddenly weighed a thousand pounds. He stopped to rest against a lamppost, closed his eyes, and promptly puked on his shoes, the alcohol burning his throat on the way up.

Somehow, he managed to get within sight of his house before he couldn't go on; he curled up in the grass bordering someone's house and closed his eyes, not caring what happened to him - because why should he? No one else did.

He was just starting to drift off into boozy slumber when a familiar voice echoed through his head, piping and high pitched like a cartoon chipmunk. "Johnny?"

Johnny creaked one eye open. Little Suzy stood worriedly over him in a pink night dress and purple socks, her hands fisted to her chest. Ugh. Another woman. "Go 'way."

She ignored him. "Are you alright? I saw you fall down. Are you sick?"

Sick of your shit, he tried to say, but it came out a garbled mutter. He rolled onto his back, threw his arms out on either side of him like Christ on the cross, and closed his eyes again. He started to fall asleep again, but Suzy grabbed his hand and yanked. "Wha'rrr you doon?" Johnny asked.

"Don't worry, Johnny," she said, "we'll get you home."

Grabbing his hand with both of hers, Suzy dug her heels into the ground and heaved with all of her might. She grunted and strained but couldn't budge him. "I'll geddup myself," he spat. He snatched his hand away, got his knees under him, and pushed himself to a standing position. He started to fall, but Suzy got behind him and kept him from going over. He kept his balance, and allowed her to lead him by the hand.

"I don't think your mom's home," she said, "her car's gone. Do you have a key?"

Johnny dug it out of his pocket and handed it to her. She unlocked the door, leaned in, and turned the light on. The hem of her dress pulled slightly up the creamy flesh of her leg, and Johnny stared through bleary eyes. She turned around, looked up at him, and flashed a reassuring smile. Her big brown eyes shone like lamps in the backwash of light falling through the door, and her pink little lips glistened wetly. Johnny's chest tightened and for a strange ripple cut through his stomach.

She took his hand again and guided him into the house and to his room, where she snapped the light on. She helped him to the bed, and he sank onto the edge. "Do you need anything?" she asked. She pressed close, her middle lightly grazing his knee, and Johnny's eyes went to the front of her dress. Beneath the fabric, he could just make out the dark, raised shape of her tiny nipples. His dick twitched and started to swell. She leaned over, her face hovering inches from his, and the clean smell of her hair broke over his nose like gentle summer rain. Johnny's stomach balled like a fist and his heartbeat sped up, slamming against his ribs like a drum. "I can make you chicken soup," she said. "I know how."

The urge to kiss her came over him. Under normal circumstances, he would have shoved it away - under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have had it in the first place - but he wasn't in control of himself. The thought formed in his brain and broke past his defenses before he could stop it, turning into a command and then an action when he took her face in his hands and jammed his tongue into her mouth. Suzy went rigid with shock, like a small animal in the maw of a much larger predator, then started to fight and thrash, his hands pushing into Johnny's chest muffled grunts bursting from her throat. Johnny swirled his tongue around hers and drunkenly explored the inside of her mouth, her intoxicating taste steeping his brain and the sensation of her hands all over him bringing him to full attention.

Suzy battered his chest with a flurry of weak punches that Johnny barely registered. He threaded his fingers through her silky hair and pillaged her mouth. She hit him in the jaw - maybe on purpose, maybe inadvertently - and, flashing, Johnny grabbed her around the neck and threw her onto the bed, a sharp scream knocking from her chest. She lay there a second, her face white and bloodless with terror, and the hatred Johnny felt at the bar came crashing back. Every time...every fucking time they thought they could hit him and reject him. Not any fucking more. He wasn't going to stand for it.

Quaking and hitching, she dug her heels into the bed and tried to propel herself away, but Johnny grabbed her foot and twisted. She screamed and tried to roll onto her side. Johnny got on top of her, caging her hips between his knees, and rammed the flat of his palm against her temple, pushing her head deep into the mattress. "Stop!" she squealed and wiggled beneath him like a trapped worm, the movements of her body exciting him even more than he already was. "Johnny, stop!"

Johnny reached under her dress, hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties, and yanked them down. Suzy's eyes widened with primal fright and her cheeks blazed with scarlet humiliation. "No! Johnny! Please, stop!" she sobbed.

WIth numb, clumsy fingers, Johnny hiked her dress up her stomach, baring her pink-tinged folds. His head spun and he nearly toppled over, but grabbed her hips and retained his balance. Tears welled in Suzy's eyes and her lips trembled pitifully. Johnny stared down at her upturned face, a corrosive mixture of hatred and rage bubbling in his breast. In that moment, Suzy stopped being just the little neighbor girl and became a stand-in for all the bitches who had hurt and rejected him over the years, every stuck-up slut who slapped him, rolled her eyes at him, treated him like he wasn't even a fucking human being with feelings. He saw every one of their faces, heard every one of their nasty, snotty little sighs and tongue clucks, felt every slap across his face in a red, stinging tattoo. Fat, ugly tears slithered down Suzy's flushed cheeks, and Johnny reveled in them, thrilled at the sound of her whimpers like a cruel god savoring the desperate pleas of a wayward people.

He was rock hard now, his dick smooshed painfully against the inside of his jeans and his balls full and heavy with molton vengeance. He fumbled at the front of his jeans, got the button undone, and tugged down the zipper. Suzy, sensing rather than knowing what was coming, redoubled her efforts to fight back, and Johnny's hand fell across her face with a flat, meaty thwack. Her head whipped to one side and she let out a half shriek/half wail that set his teeth on edge. "Shut up," he said and pressed his hand over her face to silence her. He reached into his underwear and brought out his dick. Forcing her thighs apart with his knees, he scooted closer and stopped when her lips curled around his tip.

Suzy tried to squirm away, but he wrapped his hands around her throat and pinned her to bed, rendering her immobile. He shifted until he felt her opening then stopped, ragged exhilations bursting from his throat. She looked up at him, her wet eyes pooled with fear, confusion, and betrayal. "Please, stop hurting me," she begged.

Just like a woman. Hurt and mistreat a man then cry and blubber when they got their comeuppance. Stupid, dirty bitches. He'd show her...he'd show her he wasn't going to stand there and take it anymore. He wasn't a fuckng simp, he was Johnny motherfucking Bravo.

Gritting his teeth, he squeezed tighter, Suzy's soft throat crushing beneath his hand. Her eyes bugged from their sockets and her cheeks puffed out, her skin turning bright red and her chest heaving for air. Johnny positioned his dick at her opening and slammed his hips forward. Her entire body jumped and her eyes strained, tears leaking down her purplish cheeks. Her body clenched around his shaft and Johnny let out a panting grunt. She was so tight it hurt, and dry too, her walls like sandpaper on his flesh.

He didn't care though. He was finally balls deep in a girl; nothing else mattered.

Letting go of her face, he planted his hands on either side of her head and thrusted as hard as he could. Suzy jumped again, and her mouth fell open in a silent scream, her features twisted and frozen in agony. He hooked his arm under her knee and bent her leg back until her foot almost touched her ear, shivering as her muscles strangled his dick in a frantic attempt to squeeze him out. "You like it, little mama?" he slurred. He pulled back and slammed forward again, and again, the bed shaking, the springs creaking, Suzy issuing breathless moans and sobs. He reached behind him, grabbed her other leg, and forced it up, Gripping her ankles, he pushed her feet above her head and drilled her with careless abandon, his dick pounding her little cervix and his shaft spreading her to the point of splitting. Blood swished around his rod, greasing the way, and he felt himself starting to cum.

Leaning into the fall, he gave one final thrust and sank all the way to hilt. His cock expanded, then released, his climax rushing up from his depths and spraying Suzy's underdeveloped womb like acid rain.

The room was spinning, his head throbbing. His stomach turned and he snapped his mouth closed against a flood of burning bile. He pulled out in a rush of blood-tinged cum and fell onto his side. Suzy stared up at the ceiling, her eyes vacant, then bit her bottom lip pitifully and began to cry. Johnny pressed his hand to his forehead and tried to get his bearings, but he was sinking fast into unconciousness, his system saturated from all the movement; his heart pumped, spreading boozy blood through his entire body, and now he couldn't think straight, couldn't see straight. The bed twisted back and forth beneath him, threatening to spill him off, and he clung to it for dear life. He closed his eyes and gave up the fight. Death could take him. Hell could have him.

Darkness shot up from below, wrapped itself around him like the creeping tendrils of many choking vines, and pulled him into the void. He gave himself willingly, and as he disappeared, the last thing he heard was the desolate weeping of a hurt and heartbroken child.

For a long time after Johnny Bravo raped her, Suzy lay next to him on the bed and cried. Throbbing pain radiated from between her legs and her hips ached so monstrously that every subtle movement sent shockwaves through her body. Her face stung where Johnny slapped it, and fire filled her throat with each shuddering breath. She tried to get a hold of herself but wept even harder, her tiny frame shaking with the force of her misery. Beside her, Johnny was curled up on his side, his hair messy and his sunglasses askew on his face. His thing dangling over the waistband of his pants like a fat, pink snake in repose and just looking at it - remembering what it did to her - made Suzy sob all over again.

After what seemed like all night, her tears tapered off to sniffles. A thousand questions raced through her head (why did Johnny hurt her?), but she didn't have time to entertain them. Like a hibernating bear, Johnny could wake up at any moment and hurt her more.

She had to get away.

But terror held her in place. What if she tried and woke Johnny up? What if he got really mad and put his thing in her thing like he did before? What if he even killed her?

Her heart sank into her stomach. She couldn't stay here, though; if she did, she would die.

Calling upon a reserve of courage she didn't know she had, Suzy scooted to the edge of the bed, wincing at the pain in her middle. She paused to make sure Johnny wasn't going to wake up; he was dead to the world, his snores so loud she was surprised the walls weren't shaking.

When she was sure he wasn't going to pop up and grab her, she tried to stand, but a lightning bolt of pain plunged into her center and she cut off a moan. Her weight shifted, and she started to fall. Her heart jumped into her throat and at the last second she threw out her arm. She hit the floor on her knees and twisted her wrist. She was so keyed up that she barely registered the pain.

On her stomach, she crawled slowly and arduously to the door, her knees digging into the carpet and her thighs chafing her battered vagina with every jostle. Tears flowed down her cheeks and she gritted her teeth so hard her temples pounded. Halfway there, the pain became too great and she flopped face first against the carpet. She squeezed her eyes closed, took a series of deep breaths, and forced herself on, stopping several times to rest and to look over her shoulder at Johnny. She was almost to the door when the box spring creaked. Her blood turned to ice water and she froze, one arm outstretched and her knee cocked. She imagined Johnny sitting up and glaring at her, and a sob bubbled up in her throat. She risked a look back and let out a watery sigh of relief; Johnny was still asleep, on his stomach now, one arm hanging off the side of the bed.

Turning back to her goal, Suzy worked through the pain and made it into the hallway. She reached up, steadied herself on an end table, and got to her feet. She limped through the living room and out the front door.

Stars twinkled in the sky overhead and crickets gently serenaded the night. A chilly wind blew from the west and raised goosebumps up and down Suzy's bare arms. She crossed them over her chest and limped home. Inside, she hobbled to the bathroom and did her best to clean herself up. She ripped a wad of toilet paper from the roll, wetted it in the sink, and wiped her thing; the moment it touched her split and swollen flesh, pain exploded in the center of her skull and she started to cry again.

In her room, she lay on top the covers and stared fixedly up at the ceiling. What Johnny did to her played in her head on an endless loop and the tears returned, bitter and stinging.

She thought Johnny was good. She thought he was nice and sweet and handsome and everything else.

But she was wrong.

He wasn't good.

He was evil.

For as long as she could remember, she liked Johnny Bravo.

But not anymore.

In the darkness, her features twisted demonically.

Now…

...Now she hated him.

The next morning, Johnny Bravo came slowly and groggily awake in a spill of golden morning sunshine, his mind gradually warming like an old engine block in the middle of winter. The first thing he became aware of was the aching pain in the center of his skull, the second was the foul taste in his mouth. He winced and stirred, a shaft of sunlight falling across his face and burning his skin. He muttered, rolled to his side, and drew his knees to his chest. He tried and failed to escape back into the refuge of sleep, and finally pushed himself to a sitting position; vertigo swept over him, and he flopped back against the pillow. Whatever I did last night, he thought, remind me not to do it again.

He pried his gummy eyes open and squinted at the clock on the nightstand. 8:15. Still early.

He swallowed against a sandpaper throat and massaged his temples with his fingertips in an attempt to quell the sickening pain. His bladder twinged, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet. The floor was unsteady beneath his feet and it took him a few minutes to get his balance. He went to the bathroom, peed, and splashed cold water in his face. His sunglasses had come off in the night and his eyes were bleary and bloodshot in the mirror. His hair, always styled and coiffed, was messy and stuck with little twigs and bits of leaves. He vaguely remembered falling down on his way home from the bar but the memory was dim and wrapped in fog like a crop of jagged rocks on a wintery sea.

Pressure caused by the effort of remembering expanded in his skull, knocking a gasp from his throat. He gripped the edge of the sink, bowed his head, and took a series of deep breaths.

Stable, he went back to his bedroom, kicking something on the way. It got tangled on his shoe and he tried to shake it loose, but it was stuck fast. He bent, snached it off, and started to throw it away, but stopped. He held it up to the light and looked at it.

Underwear.

And they were pink.

...and small.

A puzzled frown touched Johnny's lips and he turned them over and over in his hand like a psychic trying to discern a missing person's whereabouts by handling something that belonged to them. Did he score last night? If so, was she a midget?

Like a bolt from the blue, a memory struck him, and his entire body tensed. Little Suzy's face, puffed out and purple. His hands around her throat. His dick buried in her core.

Johnny's heart splashed into his stomach and the panties dropped from his hands, landing on the floor in a damning heap. He stared down at them in wide-eyed horror, willing them to disappear, but they remained, bearing silent and final testimony to what he'd done the night before. He jerked his aching head from side to side in denial but even as he did, the memory crystalized, becoming clearer, keener. He remembered everything from pulling her into his lips to rolling off of her after he was done.

Every sob.

Every terrible detail.

His stomach dropped to his feet.

His first thought was not for Suzy, but for himself. He messed up bad and if she told, he'd go to jail. Terror seized him and he started to pant like an animal backed into a corner. He raked his fingers through his hair and fought against the rising tide of hysteria threatening to overwhelm him. He went to the window, pulled back the curtain, and looked outside. Across the yard, Suzy's house stood in the early morning sun like a crouched predator.

This was bad.

Real bad.

Letting the curtain fall back into place, he sat on the edge of the bed and hugged himself. Maybe she wouldn't tell. Maybe she'd be so messed up and traumatized that she'd keep it to herself. Maybe...maybe she died.

He hoped so. That way he wouldn't get in trouble.

He checked his phone and found a text from Mama. She was at her friend's house and wouldn't be back until later.

For a long time, Johnny sat here, too scared to move and expecting cops to break down the door at any moment. Finally, after several hours, he slunk to the bathroom and took a long, hot shower, the water relaxing his bunched muscles and soothing away the last lingering vestiges of intoxication from his brain. When he was done, he hid in his room until Mama came back. He couldn't look her in the eye at dinner; she noticed something was off and smothered him in hugs and kisses that did little to make him feel better. All day, he was shaky and on edge, waiting for the inevitable knock at the door that would spell his doom, but it never came.

Things continued this way for nearly a week. Finally, on Friday afternoon, they came, two uniformed police officers with stony expressions. They put him in handcuffs and led him out the door. Mama followed close behind, screaming at them. "Where are you taking him? He didn't do anything, he's a good boy!"

At the station, a fat detective with his sleeves rolled up his hairy forearms sat across the table from him, a styrofoam cup of coffee clutched in one hand and a cigarette in the other. "You know why you're here, don't you, Johnny?"

Johnny stared down at the table, tears welling in his eyes. "Yeah," he croaked.

"You really hurt that little girl," the detective said. "She tried to hide it from her mom, but then the internal bleeding got her."

Johnny winced.

"She almost died. Doctor said it looked like someone ran a chainsaw through her crotch."

Johnny's stomach turned.

"What happened?"

Sighing, Johnny told him everything. When he was done, the detective took him to a cell.

And thus began the next twenty-five years of Johnny Bravo's life.